A Stolen Moment
by Shinigami8419
Summary: Paris is desperate to set things right. He can't bear the thought of his people dying over him. He intends to confront Menelaus but it takes an enemy soldier to show him the folly of his naive expectations. PWP. !SLASH! AchilliesParis FINALLY FINISHED!
1. Default Chapter

Achilles grabbed the hooded figure roughly by the back of the neck as it attempted to sneak through the twilit Myrmidon camp. He dragged it to his tent and flung it unceremoniously in through the curtained doorway.  
  
It staggered a few paces but then turned and face him, drawing itself up, attempting to regain some of the dignity it had lost by it's rather sudden introduction into the tent. Achilles regarded the figure with a sort of grim amusement, standing so he blocked the doorway with his arms folded, looking down at the cloaked stranger.  
  
"So you are Achilles," it spoke. It's voice was high, dignified, with no trace of fear and far, far too young. "The supposed goddess-favoured, unvanquishable warrior."  
  
"And you are Paris," Achilles said with a low growl. "The youngest son of King Priam of Troy. What are you doing here, Prince?"  
  
"I have come here to talk with King Menelaus, proclaim my love, have him take his revenge on me. I will appeal to his decency, prevent him from continuing with this needless siege." He paused. "I can prevent any more needless Trojan blood to be spilt."  
  
"You're a fool," Achilles replied, harsh and with a knowing tone. Far too young, this rash Trojan prince, to possibly understand what he was doing by walking into the heart of the Greek camp.  
  
Paris stood even straighter, obviously trying to look down on the far taller warrior. He was about to speak but Achilles interrupted.  
  
"I'm curious, young Prince. Let's look on the face that stole the heart of the woman who launched a thousand ships," he stepped forward boldly and flung back the prince's cowl.   
  
Achilles found his breath catching in his throat. For the first time in probably all his life, he found himself caught off-guard. He had heard stories, true, but none had really prepared him. He don't think he'd ever seen a boy look like it. He was momentarily spellbound by the dark, unruly curls of his hair, the softness of his lips, even as they tried to scowl. His eyes were darker than the night, open, passionate, fringed by thick black lashes. And the air of dignity and honour he was struggling to keep in place in his current confines leant such a naïve courage to his expression that the entire effect took it upon itself to startle Achilles, son of the Goddess Thetis, into momentary silence as he just stood and absorbed the sight.  
  
"Now, I suggest you do to me what you brought me in here for, or take me to your King,"  
  
"Menelaus is not my King. Neither is Agamemnon. I have no King," Achilles snarled.  
  
Paris's dark eyes flashed softly in the lamplight. He was brave for one so young, Achilles could see that. But there was something deep in his eyes that betrayed him ever so slightly.  
  
"What is it you thought I brought you in here for, Prince Paris?" Achilles asked with a slow smile.  
  
"To kill me," Paris stated simply, watching Achilles's smile with caution.  
  
Achilles snorted. "Such a cynical and simple attitude, Prince of Troy."  
  
"Well then let me go to Menelaus," he said, moving forward. Achilles moved to block his progress. Paris paused, refusing to rise his eyes, staring intently at Achille's breastplate. "Please move."  
  
"Do you know what Menelaus will really do to you if you go to him?" Achilles asked in a low voice. The young Prince swallowed but did not look up. "He won't listen to you. He will laugh at you," slowly the Princ raised his eyes. "Then he will imprison you,"   
  
Achilles took a step forward, forcing Paris to back up, away from the door. "He will allow his men to taunt you. He will let them beat you. He may even let them…" . Achilles looked down knowingly into the prince's eyes and slowly, deliberately lifted his hand and fingered a tress of the dark curls, just beside his ear. Paris caught his breath. Achilles gave a small, communicative shrug. "He may even take a fancy to you himself,"  
  
Paris's mask was cracking. Achilles was vaguely amused and vaguely saddened to see the fear that he'd tried so hard to conquer begin bleeding through. He could see him fighting the urge not to step away.   
  
Achilles dropped his hand. "Then he will inform your father that you are his captive and will kill you unless Priam hands over Helen and then all of Troy. Your father will be forced to give up his honour, his city and his son. For Menelaus will kill you anyway. And all because you thought you'd be brave."  
  
Paris looked down and swallowed again. There was a pause as he mastered his voice. "That's what's going to happen?"  
  
Achilles was silent.  
  
Paris looked up. "I am prepared to face the consequences of my actions," he said with the slightest tremor in his voice. "I suppose you're expecting me to be thankful to you for telling me what he's going to do to me before you take me to him."  
  
Achilles snorted again before turning his back on the Prince. He went over to the plate of food that had been placed in the corner for him during the day. He drank deeply from the wine, savouring the sweet bite of it. Examining the rest of the food, he selected a leg of roast fowl.  
  
Paris watched him, confused. "You won't take me to the king?"  
  
Achilles ignored him.  
  
"And you aren't going to kill me?"  
  
"Still too early in the day to be killing princes," he stated.  
  
Achilles could almost hear the Prince's thought process, skipping through all their conversation and drawing the inevitable conclusion. He smiled bitterly. Princes always thought the knew soldiers, convinced of their base and vulgar urges. He waited for the response…  
  
"Well what do you…want with me then?"  
  
Achilles turned and locked gazes with Paris. Achilles felt slightly amused to see the courage and fear both fighting to dominate the expression on the Prince's face. He dropped the bone he had been gnawing at. It landed with a clatter on the bronze plate. Achilles walked slowly forward. This time, Paris did back away. Achilles backed him to the pile of furs in the corner that served as his bed. Paris felt it against his heels and could go no further. Achilles stepped up close and stared hard at him. Paris refused to look away, though Achilles could see the fire in his eyes was struggling to stay alive. Achilles place a strong, firm hand on his shoulder and forced him to sit. He felt the poor boy trembling. 


	2. Chapter 2

Finally, Achilles laughed bitterly. "You've no need to fear me, Prince," he retrieved the plate of food and dropped it noisily at the prince's feet, forcing him to start. "My only intention is to keep you here until it is fully dark. Perhaps then even you might be able to sneak back out without getting caught."  
  
He turned his back on Paris, but could feel his confused stare raking at his back. He contrived to ignore it.  
  
Achilles was tired and angry. He was sick of this situation, sick of his life. He was sick of fighting for glory and sick of knowing it was the only thing worth achieving. He knew that he could win this war. He knew that he was the greatest fighter in the world. But how long would that live on after he was dead? Soon there would be another greatest fighter in the world. He wanted people to remember him, remember his life, remember his death. The only way he could ensure that he did not fade into the insignificance he so feared was to make sure that his were the most spectacular achievements the world had ever seen.  
  
He leant over his wash basin and stared at his reflection. He wanted to be remembered as more than this, more than just this casing of flesh. And this was it. This war, this siege. Herein lay the death that would stop him from fading, keep him alive for thousands more years to come.  
  
He scooped at the cool water and scrubbed at his face, attempting to wash away his anger and his bitterness.  
  
Finally Paris spoke. His voice was soft, curious and vaguely soothing. "Why are you letting me go?"  
  
Achilles sighed. He didn't look up. He removed his heavy bronze breastplate and tried to let the cool water soothe away his tension. "If this war is meant to be won by us, it can only be through the fact that we are the better warriors, the better army. Giving Menelaus the unfair advantage with a Royal hostage is not the way this war is supposed to be won."  
  
Achilles bathed his shoulders and indeed the clean water did seem to momentarily ease his pains. He felt his muscles revel in the sensation, and felt the heat of his skin quenched comfortingly.  
  
There was silence in the tent. Achilles looked around. Paris quickly looked away. Even in the wan light of the flickering lamps, he could see the lad blushing. Achilles paused and felt a smile crawl across his face. He laughed inwardly at this absurd situation, Paris, young prince of Troy, desperate lover of the most beautiful woman in the world, watching a soldier of the enemy army wash.  
  
Achilles turned away and continued, unabashed.  
  
"Thank you," he heard Paris mutter and from the sound of his voice he was still intently facing the opposite wall as thought it had done him personal wrong.  
  
Achilles didn't reply. There was nothing to be thanked for. He wasn't doing it to save the miserable boy's wretched life. He was doing to ensure the war went down in blood and fire, spectacular and unforgettable. He'd already known what to do when he'd seen the hopelessly obvious cloaked figure try to slink through the shadows towards the ships. He knew he'd wanted to throw him back over the walls of Troy, if necessary, to make sure he stayed away from Menelaus and Agamemnon even before he'd ever seen that beautiful face…  
  
Beautiful? Achilles paused. He blinked slowly. He found himself picturing it again. Beautiful? Well, he was young, unmarked by battles. He was a dandy, a pretty-boy, a spoilt prince. Naturally he had to be a fairly spectacular piece of work to woo away Helen of Sparta.   
  
But there had been an honesty, an openness in his eyes that had taken away any such negative assumptions from his face. Yes, he was beautiful.  
  
But that was nothing to Achilles. He stripped off the rest of his armour and bathed his acing legs. Out of curiosity he glanced out through his hair in the direction of the Prince and found that the boy was watching him again. It amused him endlessly but it was with a flush of embarrassment of his own when he realised that the thought of those dark eyes on him caused a stab of desire in the pit of his stomach.  
  
TBC  
  
Author's note: would just like to say thank you to all who have reviewed so far. Thank you so much for taking the time to let me know what you think!! 


	3. Chapter 3

He pushed it away, irritated. This was certainly not a time to be thinking of that sort of thing. Not here, not now…not him.  
  
Achilles tossed away the washcloth callously and retrieved his long, black tunic.  
  
"I put that food there for a reason, young prince," he muttered whilst tying the waist cord. He turned. The prince was staring intently at the food, but it was obvious he wasn't seeing it. A blush still mantled his delicate cheeks and the stiffness of his shoulders suggested he really was lost in his own confused and combating emotions. Achilles chuckled inwardly once again.  
  
The tall warrior picked up his goblet of wine and walked forward, moving to stand directly in front of the prince, finally forcing him to look up. Achilles could see Paris was struggling to keep his breathing under control. There was still fear in his eyes, deepening them, giving them the air of an unsettled night sky.   
  
"Relax, Prince," Achilles said at length. "I am not an animal. I give you my word, I shall not touch you against your will. Now eat."  
  
Achilles sat on the furs beside the Trojan youth, a significant distance away. He took another sip of his wine and watched the boy out of the corner of his eye. Paris now did actually see the food. He took a stalk of rich, purple grapes and appeared to relax somewhat though refused to turn to face his involuntary host.  
  
Achilles watched silently as Paris's slender fingers plucked a grape and brought it to his lips. The manner of the prince's blinking suggested he knew perfectly well he was being watched. He bit into the grape anyway, still staring fixedly ahead. Achilles looked away. He hated the way the sight of Paris's throat swallowing effected him. He scowled to himself and drank more wine.  
  
"They say you're the greatest fighter the world has ever known," Paris said quietly. "They say you cannot be defeated," Paris finally looked at him. "You believe Troy will fall to you?"  
  
Achilles just looked back at him. That face was far too young, far too innocent to be wearing that sort of serious, melancholy expression.  
  
Paris's eyes roamed his face for a while before leaving him to stare at the wall again. He ate another grape. "My brother is the best warrior Troy has ever born," he said strongly. "He is a good man and an honourable warrior. The gods will favour him in this battle."  
  
Achilles refilled his wine goblet from the carafe beside his bed and watched the light of the oil lamp dance on it's bloody surface.  
  
Paris continued. "They will favour him because he is an honourable man," once more Paris seemed to find the courage to look at him, but Achilles did not meet his eyes. "He only kills for the sake of others, he only kills to protect his people," Paris's voice was getting steadily more heated. "You kill for yourself. You kill for glory, for the feel of blood on your hands. You said yourself, you don't serve any king, you're not here for Meneleaus or Agamemnon. You're here to kill for yourself. And that makes you nothing more than a murderer."  
  
Achilles slid his right hand smoothly under a rolled up fur and drew forth a sturdy, bronze dagger. He brought it into the light and idly turned it in the fingers of his left hand, watching the fiery light bounce and dance on its surface. Paris fell silent.  
  
Smoothly, calmly, Achilles turned slightly. He reached across and rested the point of the dagger on Paris's shoulder, allowing the flat of the blade to press firmly across the smooth skin of his exposed throat. Achilles was pleased to see that whilst a blackening of fear had returned to his eyes, he did not move away from the coldness of the blade.  
  
"Have you ever killed a man, Prince of Troy?" Achilles asked quietly. "Forced that breath to be his last one, watch as his soul flees, see how you've reduced a man to a lump of meaningless flesh?"  
  
Paris swallowed carefully.  
  
Achilles nodded slowly. "Then I can hardly see how your in a position to judge." Achilles kept the blade steady and watched his eyes.  
  
"Why?" Paris said at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "Why do you do it?"  
  
Achilles sighed. He brought the dagger away and threw it into the sand. He watched it where it had landed. It looked so pointless an insignificant, just a shard of metal. It shouldn't be as important as it was.  
  
Achilles took another fortifying draught of wine, savouring it's sour sweetness. "This is all we're given, young prince of Troy," he murmured quietly. "This is it. This one body, this one life," he looked back. Paris was listening intently. "All you can do is use the time you have to try and achieve something lasting, something that won't erode. Even if your name is written in stone, the stone will eventually succumb to the wind and the rain. You have to be remembered by people, not by stones. Your name should be on people's tongues, your deeds forever in their minds." He turned slowly, looking directly into the open, dark and expressive depths of Paris's eyes. "When you are condemned to forever in the underworld, to know your life is being related above you amongst the people for thousands of years has got to be the closest you can come to being a god. It is immortality."  
  
Paris's eyes didn't flicker. "What is the point of gaining immortality if you are not around to enjoy it? I would rather spend eternity in Hades thinking upon the life I've had with the love of a wonderful family and a beautiful woman than by the fact that people remember me for people I've killed."  
  
Achilles snorted. "You really are a very young prince of troy," he stated, watching Paris's now controlled expression.   
  
With a mischievous turn of thought, he leant across Paris's body, reaching for an orange on the food platter. He felt an ever so slight tremor in the Prince's treacherous body as flesh grazed flesh. He straightened and started to casually peel the orange. Stealing a glance at the Prince he saw that he'd shut his eyes and seemed to be struggling with some inner conflict.  
  
"So, this Helen of Sparta," Achilles asked, throwing away the peel. "Is she as beautiful as they say?"  
  
Paris blinked, looking up, appearing to have mastered himself for now. "More," he said. "Words are too crude a vehicle to describe her."  
  
Achilles nodded nonchalantly and tore off a segment of the orange. He brought it to his lips. "You must be quite a lucky man, then," Achilles looked at him. It appeared to take quite a lot of effort for Paris to being his gaze away from the orange at his mouth. Achilles smiled devilishly. He tried to disregard the heat that he was beginning to feel grow in his belly.  
  
"I am," he said, promptly looking away once again. His cheeks grew even redder.  
  
"Are you hot, Prince?" Achilles asked, trying to keep the smile out of his voice. He reached forward and rested the back of his hand against the Prince's face.  
  
"No," Paris said, rather forcefully.  
  
"Here," Achilles offered him the goblet of wine. He took it rather feverishly and, shutting his eyes, brought it to his lips and drank as though he were dying in the desert. Achilles ate one more section of orange and laid the rest of the fruit aside. He watched once again with fascination as the slender throat swallowed the liquor eagerly.  
  
Achilles watched his hand reach forward slowly as though it were someone elses. Paris paused in his drinking as he felt Achilles's rough knuckles run across his jaw line. He looked around. Achilles felt drawn uncontrollably to the fire that was burning deep in the Prince's eyes. He dragged his thumb across the boy's trembling lips. They were moist with the wine, looking so sweet and inviting.   
  
Achilles found himself powerless to resist. He took a gently hold of Paris's jaw and shifted forward daringly. He closed his eyes and captured the youth's lips insistently in his own. He heard the soft thud as the wine goblet was dropped into the sand at their feet. He felt the Prince melt against him.   
  
His veins were suddenly aflame. The Prince's lips tasted like fruit and wine. He boldly deepened the kiss, pushing his tongue forward through his parted lips, longing for the taste of more.   
  
Paris gasped and pulled back suddenly. Achilles opened his eyes. Their faces were only inches apart, Paris's breathing was laboured and his eyes heavy. He muttered something nonsensical and shook his head. He turned his face away.  
  
"No," he said. "You swore you wouldn't touch me."  
  
Achilles move up closer, pressing his body against the slender frame of the young prince, feeling his pulse through the pathetic fabric of their tunics and Paris's cloak. "I swore I wouldn't touch you against your will," he stroked the secret skin at the back of Paris's neck and laid his other hand on the prince's leg. He put his lips close to the boy's ear. "Come, my Prince," he whispered, burning at the sensation of being so close. "Unfold for me, let me show you want you want to be shown." 


	4. Chapter 4

Paris stood up, pulling away so suddenly that Achilles felt as though a knife had been wrenched from a wound. Paris turned his back on him and stumbled to the other side of the tent. He stood there, shaking slightly and breathing deeply.  
  
Achilles got to his feet, lazily and languidly as a cat. He walked up close behind the younger man, smelling the beguiling scent of his hair and skin. It was almost too much for Achilles. He was wrapped in this boy, the sight of him, the smell…the remembered taste.  
  
Paris did not move away but stood silently, his whole body taut as a bowstring. Slowly, gently, loath to scare him off, Achilles lifted his hand and stroked slowly the Prince's shoulder through his cloak. It was stiff and tense, reluctant and yet longing to be touched.   
  
He ran his hand slowly, reverently, down the prince's arm and up across his back, enjoying the enigmatic feel of the svelte body concealed beneath the fabric. He watched as the lamplight licked at his hair and at the folds of his cloak as they shifted with Achilles's touch. As he ran his hands up the prince's arms and took a gentle, supportive hold of his shoulders, he felt Paris relax ever so slightly, shifting the way he held his head, his muscles holding him not quite so stiff. Encouraged, Achilles leant forward and endeavoured to kiss the exposed skin at his collar.  
  
"No," Paris choked suddenly as Achilles's breath licked at this skin. He made a half-hearted attempt to pull himself from the Greek warrior's hold. "I don't care how many Greeks are camped on these beaches, you lay another hand on me and you shall live to regret it. I don't know how or when, but one day. People shall walk and spit on the stones with your name."  
  
"So, harsh my Prince," Achilles murmured, bending and placing the soft kiss on the skin of Paris's neck. "When all I want to do is show you some pleasure, something to keep you warm during your lonely drift in Hades."  
  
He kissed his neck again, delighting in the shivers it wrung forth from the sensitive skin.  
  
"It's not right," Paris nearly sobbed, pulling away. "You're a soldier, an enemy…a man."  
  
Achilles felt his hands aching for the touch of that skin again. He was a little unnerved at the need he was suddenly experiencing. It had started off as a bit of harmless mischief, seeing how far he could push this Prince deprived of a powerful touch in his life. It was clear he had been babied ever since he was born, wrapped in soft cloth, verily worshipped and protected by his father and brother. He was longing for something hotter, something more honest, something more…real.  
  
But now, Achilles was wondering if he needed this just as badly. A gentle touch, a care more honest and equal than that of a woman. He had the adoration of his men, he had the love of his cousin. But what of something lighter than that? Something simple with no names, no attachments, no constraints. Just some gentle words, the touch of soft, friendly hands, the taste of a mouth that didn't bite. Something beautiful something special, a stolen moment to share, a secret memory to treasure. With the beautiful Prince of Troy.  
  
It should feel wrong. This should be driven by false intentions, selfish harsh intentions. If he really meant to bed the youngest son of the king of Troy, it should have been out of spite, out of cruelty, for the sense of triumph, conquering his enemy in the most harsh and personal way. But those sort of thoughts seemed vile to him now as he saw the young man stood in his tent, torn and slightly frightened by all that he was experiencing. He found all he wanted was to share something with him, this virtual stranger. Give whilst taking some comfort for himself.  
  
And the memory of that kiss was sparking much keener fires of desire along his nerves and in his blood than he could ever recall feeling. The brief taste of the boy's mouth, the feel of his skin, the sensation of being pressed against him and the soft thud of the wine glass dropping from Paris's fingers, suddenly rendered nerveless by Achilles's kiss...all of it was real and burning in his brain and in his blood.  
  
He took a breath to still his shuddering heart, tried to calm his pulse. He clenched and unclenched his fists, the physical sensation of his nails against his palms giving him something to focus on, a point in the real world to prevent him from yielding to these sensations he just wanted to drown in.  
  
Paris was still facing away from him, shaking slightly more than before. It was almost painful watching him try and master himself, repress these urges he didn't understand and was slightly fearful of.  
  
"Have you never known the love of a man, young Paris?" he asked huskily. The silence was more than an answer. The revelation shot a spark of heat along Achilles's spine.  
  
Achilles drifted to stand in front of the confused and needy Trojan youth. He did not look up. Achilles fought the desire to touch him. Paris's eyes were shut against the world, seemingly trying to shut out all he was experiencing. Achilles longed to coax him out, stop him burning himself in trying to smother the fire with his hands. He wanted to show him how it was best to let it burn.  
  
The thought that he could be the first to show him, the first to touch him thus threatened to overpower Achilles. The very first man to kiss the Trojan prince, the first man to reveal to him the powerful and sensuous passion he was capable of. The thought alone almost undid him.  
  
Achilles leant his face close enough to smell his sweet breath, but was careful not to make any contact. "How then do you know you won't like it?" he whispered  
  
Paris let out a shuddering breath. Show him, Achilles thought, show him how he good it can feel to give into the fire. The Myrmidon Captain allowed himself to graze his scarred and weathered fingertips against the unblemished skin of Paris's cheek. He savoured the sight. Paris gave a sort of sigh but did not open his eyes. Achilles bent his head for another kiss.  
  
"Please don't," his voice was quiet, desperate.  
  
Achilles paused. Paris opened his eyes. Achilles caught that burning, tortured gaze with his own.  
  
"Don't what?" he asked, slowly. "Don't do this?" he leant forward again and brushed his lips tenderly against the Prince's flushed cheek.   
  
"Or this?" he murmured against the prince's skin as he undid the beautiful and ornate Trojan brooch that had given him away as it glinted in the shadows as he attempted to sneak through the Myrmidon camp. Paris's cloak slunk to the sandy floor.   
  
"Or perhaps this?" Achilles pushed the soft fabric of the Prince's thin, blue tunic off his shoulder and bent to kiss it. He brushed his lips against the warm skin, tenderly kissed his collarbone. Achilles could not mistake the shudder in the prince's body or the manner of his breathing. Paris wanted this. The Trojan prince wanted it so badly he was ashamed.  
  
Achilles had to show him how there was no shame in wanting to be loved. He raised his lips and kissed at the tender part of his neck under his jaw. He felt intoxicated, propelled by something sensual and powerful, deep within his very being. He found he could not get enough of the taste of this responsive skin. He mouthed ever more boldly at his neck, caressing it with his lips and his tongue. The tiniest of helpless noise escaped Paris.  
  
"Let me show you," he whispered into Paris's ear.  
  
Achilles slipped his hand into the prince's tunic and wound his arm around the slender waist and pulling him close. He marvelled at the feel of the toned and slender body against his hand. He could feel the first of the prince's barriers coming down with a crash as he leant into the embrace, wrapping his own arms around the taller warrior's neck. Achilles felt his blood sing at this contact and was afraid his need would consume him.  
  
He captured that mouth again, feeling every nerve in his body tremble at the feel of it. Paris's mouth was now hot and insistent and Achilles wanted to savour every taste of it. He pushed into the kiss and Paris's lips parted for him. Achilles's tongue quested forward, insistent and hungry. Achilles heard another wonderful sound escape the Prince's throat. He found the younger man pressing urgently against him, responding feverishly to Achilles's hungry exploration of his mouth.  
  
Achilles moaned slightly himself. He revelled in the intensity of the kiss, grasped the slight waist tighter to him, wanting the pressure, longing for the heat. The taste and the smell and feel of the Prince against him was impossibly wonderful, lighting his body in all the right places. He doubt he would ever get enough.  
  
He took a careful, experimental step backward, back towards the pile of furs. Paris came with him, never loosening his grip on the Myrmidon's neck, never ceasing in his responsive kiss. Encouraged, Achilles backed further up until his heels encountered his bed. Reluctantly, he broke the kiss. Both their breathing was heavy. Paris's eyes were dark and heavy, gazing intently through his lashes. His lips were parted and moist and there was no trace of his previous fear in the heady and passion-fuelled expression on his face.  
  
Achilles lowered himself onto the bed, keeping a hold of Paris's hand. He kept his eyes steady, their locked gazes crackling in the still air. He didn't speak. Paris's eyes flickered slightly. Achilles could see him absorbing all. Once more there was a battle going on behind his eyes. Achilles did not move, did not pull at the slim hand still in his grip. He waited. 


	5. Chapter 5

Achilles could see the storm raging behind Paris's eyes. It darkened them, deepened them. They seemed to breathe, deep draughts shifting and ebbing in the darkness, coolness battling to quench the heat.  
  
Achilles knew the heat in his own eyes was better than any words. He could not tear his gaze from Paris's. This moment was too wonderful and too painful. Paris was still so far away. Achilles longed to have more. He shocked himself with the realisation it was not just the thought of showing this young man to true heat to which he could burn that was exciting him now…he wanted to touch that body, he wanted to be warmed by it himself. He wanted to see those dark eyes hooded in passion and memorise the taste of those lips.  
  
These thoughts sent desire wheeling through him dangerously. He let out a shuddering breath and could feel his heart and belly burning. He found himself praying to all the gods, the gods he disregarded, the gods he hated, that the Prince would come to him now. Together, two enemies could have some warmth, some pleasure, some kisses to remember when the world turned black for them.  
  
He could see the Prince tottering atop a precarious moral perch, still desperately struggling to maintain his balance. Achilles held his breath.  
  
Paris's passion was strong, fiery, insistent and finally Achilles could see it swamp the damp doubts and burn them away. Paris took a breath, closed his eyes and let Achilles draw him down. Achilles felt himself sigh from the heart as Paris lowered himself down on top of him. Their mouths met insistently, hotly, like they were both starved of each other. There was a mirroring of his own need in that sweet but now demanding mouth. It sent Achilles's mind spiralling. It was all he could do to retain his conscious thought.  
  
Achilles felt a moan escape his feverish throat as the kiss got deeper, hotter and their bodies moved closer. He explored the Prince's quick, exciting mouth with the passionate eagerness of a blind man running his fingers over the carved surface of a shining shield. In a place at the back of his heart, shadowy and cool, he was unnerved at how good the prince tasted, how wonderful he felt against his chest, the pressure, friction, taste and smell of the Trojan's body casting hot magic all throughout him.  
  
Achilles's fingers brushed against the cool firmness of the remaining orange pieces where they lay in the furs as he reached up irresistibly to wrap his powerful arms around the lithe prince's body, desperate to embrace and keep him, maintain this contact, this warmth. But with the tightening of his arms, the Prince pulled back. There was another painful pause. The uncertainty was eating at him. He took his arms away and felt his hand rest on the abandoned orange. He wondered if it was the sense of being trapped that frightened the prince. However there was no fear in the Trojan's eyes as they burned into his own. His face was so close, his lips parted and wet. Achilles noted with interest that they were breathing exactly in time.  
  
"What are you doing to me, Greek warrior?" he asked in a husky whisper. "I shouldn't be…" the uncertainty in his eyes, though painful, was also beguiling. "I shouldn't be wanting…this. What are you doing to me?"  
  
"The same thing you are doing to me, Prince of Troy," Achilles found the strength to reply. The sight of that mouth was almost too much for him. He fumbled a segment of orange away from its fellows and brought it up between them. He traced the cool fruit across Paris's cheek and brushed it over his lips. Paris's eyes did not flicker. Slowly, deliberately, Achilles held the fruit above himself, where his tunic parted. He squeezed it so that a few sweet drops of juice dropped onto his exposed flesh. He shivered slightly at the delightful coolness.   
  
Paris watched all this with his dark eyes burning with an enchanting…want, a need. He met Achilles's eyes once and the bent his to lick the juice off his skin. Achilles groaned, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. He revelled in the sensation of the prince's mouth and tongue on him. He felt Paris's deft and now bold hand pushing the fabric further off his chest and shoulders.   
  
Paris's mouth blazed fiery trails across his chest and shoulders. He could not keep himself quiet and moaned in the delicious agony.  
  
"You taste like fire," Paris said breathily against his collarbone.  
  
Achilles used his strength and turned them, laying the prince down in his furs. The sight was too much and he was gasping for that mouth again. He ran his hands over the prince's torso, still stealthily hidden in the maddening fabric. He reached between them and slowly undid the cord of the younger man's tunic. The knot fell away in his fingers and Achilles wasted no time in ridding the prince of the restraining material. Finally Achilles could devour the wondrous flesh of the boy's body with his eyes, but he felt unable to break the kiss. Instead he gave himself the indulgence of a blind man, using his hands to see. Achilles shuddered with pleasure at the feel of the lithe and deceptively slim waist and arms beneath his hands. The Prince mewed delightfully as Achilles allowed his hands to explore every inch of his skin. His hands feasted on the feel of that silkiness binding the firmness of his chest, the smooth and muscular plane of his stomach. He marvelled that one so young should have such a powerful build concealed in his svelte frame.  
  
Paris shivered as the Greek warrior's hands ran down his ribs, down his sides and along his thighs. Achilles trailed wet kisses along his jaw and down his neck. He would never tire of these sensations. He rocked his hips tentatively, gently, seeking to assuage the burning demand in his groin. Paris arched into the contact and Achilles could feel the prince's lithe arms wrap themselves around his neck and tighten. He felt the slim fingers wreath themselves in his hair and the Prince moved against him, silently begging for more.  
  
Achilles leant his mouth close to the Prince's ear. "Paris," he whispered breathily. "Do you trust me?"  
  
Paris gave a startled gasp as once more Achilles gave a suggestive buck with his hips. "Outside this tent," the boy breathed. "No."  
  
"And inside it?"  
  
Paris's arms tightened around him and the young man arched into the pressure. "Yes…yes, with my life."  
  
"Then trust me that the pain will go and soon you will forget all the pains you have ever suffered."  
  
Paris's breath shuddered ever so slightly and there was a slight stiffening in all his limbs at these words. But Achilles did not pull back. He slipped a hand in between their two bodies and felt the desperate hardness of the Prince's erection. Paris gasped loudly at the contact and Achilles slowly took to stroking the sensitive flesh. Paris said no more words but Achilles swallowed a number of delightful noises with his kiss.   
  
Achilles brought back his hand. He took an indulgent moment to run his fingers through the Prince's silky hair. It was a beautiful feeling, the softness sliding through his fingers. Achilles found he loved the feeling of this intimate and tender gesture and felt his fingers could get lost in that hair forever.   
  
However, he felt strongly other needs that needed to be attended to in both of them. But, he tucked away in the corner of his mind a promise to him that he would let his fingers roam at their will through the Princes sweet-smelling hair later. Something more to look forward to when everything was cooler, calmer.  
  
Now, he broke their wet kiss and bringing his fingers to his mouth. Paris watched, his eyes dark with desire, curiosity and the tiniest hint of fear. Achilles reassured him with his eyes before leaning in to capture his mouth and trying to kiss away all the doubt. He dove powerfully into Paris's mouth as he slowly moved his hand down between them. His own hardness was begging to be touched, begging for some relief. But Achilles focussed all his attention on the young enemy prince, slightly wary of his fist man's touch.  
  
He felt Paris stiffen underneath him, his muscles tensing in discomfort as Achilles gently prepared him. He made a small, distressed noise and Achilles was rather disquieted at the amount to which the prince's discomfort troubled him.  
  
"Relax, Prince," he mumbled against his lips. "Relax, I will make it wonderful for you."  
  
TBC  
  
Author's note: I would just like to say a great big thank yoou to everyone and apologise enormously for the fact that the next chapter probably won't be up for quite a while because i'm going home for the summer where i have no internet...ahhhh! So i am sorry and if i do get a chance over summer to update i will. But if not, i'll see you in the autumn! Thanks for all your time and appreciation. It means a great deal. Peace out#! xXx 


	6. Chapter 6

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** WOOHOO!!! Finally, another chapter! I'm so sorry for the wait, but I am back now! I would like to say a huge, huge sorry to all who had to wait so long for this chapter and also a great thank you for being so patient! But here it is, full of steamy goodness lol and I'll get the next one up as soon as I can! Peace, friends! xXx  
  
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The Prince shifted slightly and Achilles began a gently rhythm with his fingers. Slowly, he felt the Prince unfold from stiff discomfort to a slow and easy motion, his breathing deep and regular. The sound and feel of it made Achilles's veins clench and burn. He pushed deeper and the Prince gasped into their kiss.

"Achilles," he cried and the Greek warrior felt the slender fingers tighten on his shoulders. Achilles felt himself being battered in a storm of emotion as well as passion. The consuming fire of his desire for the beautiful Prince fought for dominance with the far more terrifying and suffocating flame burning deeper than the passion; emotion, a tidal wave of it, alien and powerful. His body wanted the Prince, his soul wanted Paris. The sound of his name on those lips, sounded in such a manner made his heart clench and his throat dry.He buried his head in Paris's neck, inhaling him, tasting him, feeling his skin and his pulse against his lips. He felt he could never pull away, that he would freeze to death if he lost this warmth.  
They unconsciously shifted together. Achilles moved his hand back up to wrap his arms around the boy's slender torso, pulling him as close as could be. His breathing was still deep but now more rapid, more insistent. Air wasn't enough for him any more.The fight to control himself, to not let loose like a rabid animal, left Achilles feeling more bloodied and bruised than if he'd fought off ten armed Trojans. He pressed himself into the Prince slowly, so slowly it was painful. He felt his entire body simultaneously go rigid and melt. He gasped against the prince's collarbone. Achilles felt and heard Paris make the tiniest sound deep in his throat. He forced himself to get control and not hurt him. This was not his intention…he didn't want to hurt the Prince, not now, not in this moment. This moment was simply this feeling, this place where there was no sand, no sea, no blood and no rain.Paris's body was hot and tense beneath him. He slowly became aware of the hot silence as he forced himself to once more be joined with his body, control it, understand it for what it was. And where it was. The heat and the pleasure that coursed through him like a flood tide from being buried deep inside this young man was almost enough to rip him away from all reason.  
He tenderly licked at the fire burning along the Prince's neck. He ran his hands gently up his sides before reaching up to bury them in his hair. He pulled his face up to look deep into his eyes. Paris looked up at him through his thick lashes, his eyes blazed black, his lips were parted and his cheeks were flushed deep and red. There was the tiniest spark of fear and pain glinting within his eyes and he made a small pleading sound that was at once glorious and heartbreaking. Achilles captured his mouth again and channelled his passion into the kiss. He felt the Prince slowly, slowly, like ice melting from a grass blade loosen and relax.Achilles swallowed all he could of the Prince's taste and smell and then moved, moved deeper, knowing he could never get enough of this heat. The young prince gasped again, his back arched against the furs and an entirely different and helpless sound rang from his throat, empty of all pain, bursting with pleasure Achilles pulled back and buried himself again, groaning into the kiss at the sensation of being held so wonderfully. Paris again arched into the contact, moving with the Greek warrior. All fear and discomfort appeared to have evaporated from him forever. Every movement between them burned and glowed. Reality was blasted away. Achilles's skin scalded against his muscles, his chest heaved and his hands found themselves unable to hold the Prince as tight as he wanted.

A long way away, he could feel Paris's fingernails digging into his back, sharp and wonderful, tiny points of pain in amongst the crashing breakers of his passion. He could hear the Prince's voice floating to his ears like feathers on a stormy wind and he reached and grabbed for them, not wanting to lose any part of him. The Prince was moaning out loud now, all reservations dissolved in this smouldering fire.

Achilles felt them both sear into one. He couldn't remember it ever being like this with woman or man, peasant or noble This prince was stripped of his crown and Achilles was torn from his armour. They were no longer a soldier and an enemy prince, none of those secular trappings were relevant. He could feel them both falling, descending into dark but wonderful depths of pure instinct and truth. Basic and complex, natural and intoxicating.He built up a tower, brick by brick, climbing as he went. He felt himself clamber higher into the sky, elevated by this fire. He could feel the great fall coming as he built himself higher. He tightened his grip on Paris and heard Paris cry out, loud and strangled, vulnerable and beautiful.  
The sound skimmed him right off the top and he plunged, with a guttural moan, into the tumultuous ocean of release. He felt himself spill and shuddered, deep and dark, his eyes clenched against the light and his face lost in the Prince's neck.His body stilled, his breathing slowed. A light breeze whispered against his back. All was still, heavy and somehow, cold.  
  
TBC 


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note:** Hey all! Once again many thanks and many apologies. I knwo i am terrible at updating and I can only say I'm sorry. Here's the next installment so far and thank you for your ovewhelming patience!

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Neither of them spoke or moved for a long time. Achilles still longed for the touch, feel and smell of the Prince but was suddenly doubting for the first time in his life whether he had the right to take what he wanted any more. He was almost afraid to lift his head and look into the Prince's face. They had done this, together. The most intimate embrace, the exposing of all to each other, two people that by all that was right should never have even seen each other, let alone like this. Achilles felt cold doubt and a fear unlike any other swamp him like a salty breaker. 

Paris shifted beneath him and Achilles could no longer avoid looking at him. He lifted his head cautiously. Paris was so beautiful Achilles almost felt he would weep. The becoming flush was dying slowly along his cheekbones, his delicate breaths were slowing and his eyes were dark, tired but open and whole and in them Achilles could find no malice, fear or regret.

That was all Achilles needed. This could be all he had wanted it to be, a tiny moment in the ocean of time, a secret and glorious jewel laid away in a velvet purse amongst earthenware pots and stalks of stale barley.

They smiled at each other and somehow it was sweeter than all their passion and fire. It was all that needed to be said between them now.

It was almost two natural the way they shifted to lie in each other's arms amongst the furs. Paris buried his curly head against Achilles's chest and the Greek warrior gathered the prince to him tenderly. He had never thought about this part. He was glad this easy tenderness came so naturally.

He protectively drew a fur around them both and bathed in the warm air, beautifully still and silent. He could feel Paris's breathing drift into that of sleep and felt the youth's eyelashes still against his skin. As he ran his fingers slowly through the prince's soft and tousled hair, he wondered whether this was possibly setting itself up to be the warmest memory of all he would have when he drifted alone and cold in the underworld river. He was the tiniest bit unnerved at the suspicion that perhaps even if he achieved all he desired, glory, immortality, a legend to live through the ages so that people would talk of and write about him for age upon age, would this hour at twilight in a dusty tent on a war-torn beach with a beautiful stranger be the memory he pondered upon the most when he slunk drably among the rocks and death of Hades?  
Although he hadn't planned to, Achilles succumbed to sleep.

The rustle of fabric brought him back from the warm, frothy dreams. The bed was suddenly too large and empty. He blinked blearily.

Paris stood at the end of his bed with his cloak close around him and his cowl low on his face. The guttering lamps flickered and coughed dark light into it's dark folds. He had fastened the brooch on the inside of the fabric this time. For a while they just blinked at each other warily.

"I have to go," Paris stammered. It was so hard to find what to say. In all likelihood neither would see the other again. Even more likely was that they'd both be dead within a week. It was a dark and heavy cloud to press around their stolen moment and was almost enough to dampen the remembered sweetness. Almost.

Achilles stood and came to the Prince. He drank in those eyes, knowing he would probably never see them again. He sipped at them as at a dark and heady liquor before dipping his head forward and planting one last warm and reverent kiss upon those young and honest lips.

Achilles felt his veins flicker with a heart-breaking joy as Paris slipped his lithe arms around him. Achilles held him close. Their kiss broke but the embrace did not. The fabric of the prince's clothes seemed far to course to have the honour of shrouding him.

To his shock and mild horror the Myrimidon Captain felt the tiniest prickle of tears in the corners of his eyes. He was aghast to the fact that he didn't know himself nearly as well as he thought.

The broke apart as stone is shattered against stormy rocks.

The locked gazes one more time and Achilles stared keenly at the Trojan's face. There was a sadness in the Prince's eyes that he didn't want to remember.

And in a second he was gone, like dust from a dream, blown away in the winds of waking. Achilles didn't fear him having trouble escaping. The air outside the tent was fully dark now, the blackest swallows of the night that would aid a small figure sliding through the shadows, intent on returning home.

Achilles shivered. He climbed back into bed. It didn't seem to want to warm him as much as it had before. He lay with his eyes open and refused to face the fact that the prince's departure made him ache this much.

TBC


	8. Epilogue

EPILOGUE 

"You lost your cousin…so you took mine."(1)

Briseis's words floated uselessly in the still air of the tent with the whisper of tears and the heavy smell of blood. Achilles barely registered them. He had his head in his hands, digging his fingernails into his skull, somehow desperate for his own blood. Screaming snakes wrapped themselves around and wrestled in his soul and no matter how he searched, he could find no feeling of triumph anywhere within his being.

There was whisper of fabric and Briseis left the tent. Achilles didn't move. He tried to find the part of him that thought it would have been wonderful, the ultimate revenge, to kill Hector and drag his body in the sand behind his chariot. He tried to think of his darling Patroclus, think of his small body lying on it's bier, stripped of all the life it had and all the life it promised.

It made him weep, but not enough to make him feel satisfied about the death of the older Trojan prince. He knew this would haunt him forever. He hated it. He hated everything, hated this war, hated the girl, hated the gods. But most of all he hated himself, a deep black loathing that he knew, now, could never be erased. It was as much a part of him as if it had been scarred into his skin with a blunt blade.

He didn't move even when he heard the tent flap and the softness of sandaled feet in the sand. There was a silence, and it wasn't the silence of Briseis. Achilles raised his head.

The figure was tall and slim, wrapped in a cloak of shadows in the ill lit tent. His hood was up but Achilles recognised him instantly. Killing Hector had sent a barbed knife slicing straight into his gut. The presence of Paris ripped it back out with a bloody and determined twist.

Achilles had never, never even dreamt of such a helplessness as he felt now. He had dreamt of the Prince every night since their meeting, still longingly inhaled the scent of them on his furs and had had to tell his servants to stop bringing him oranges because they brought back too many feelings which he knew he could never recapture.

All he wanted now was to stand and bury himself in the boy's arms, find his cure, as he had last time, with the touch of his skin and the taste of his lips. But he knew now that that door had been slammed on him so tightly, the loneliness of it all suffocated him. He choked but didn't try to speak.

"There are no curses under the sun foul enough to do you the bitter justice you deserve to reap, Achilles, son of Thetis," Paris's words were swollen with venom and the came out choked and unsteady. There were tears glinting in the darkness inside his hood.

Achilles stood without realising. He felt himself reach out. He just wanted, more than anything, above breath, above life, to touch him.

Paris pulled back and the movement made wire contract around Achilles's heart. There were no words. The Greek refused to weep any more in front of him. He knew it would be no comfort to the Trojan prince. He had to see him. Just one more time, he had to see Paris's face, see it as he remembered it.

Too quickly for Paris to pull back, Achilles grabbed his arm, pulled him close. Paris gave a startled noise of distress that hurt Achilles more than he could ever understand. The feeling of his body against his own again was enough to make him weep anew. But he simply threw back the Prince's cowl. Paris tried to pull away, choking on tears, hanging his head to hide his face.

"Don't touch me," Achilles released the boy. Each breath he drew felt treacherous, but he felt time would stand forever still until Paris lifted his head and met his eyes. But the boy's strength had seemingly fled from him. He wrapped his arms around himself and was wracked with sobs. Achilles felt his heart tearing itself to pieces.

Paris collapsed to his knees in the sand, bent over, small and so smothered in grief that it threatened to kill Achilles, knowing as he did that he could never be a comfort and was in fact the cause.

He lowered himself down to kneel before him. Paris didn't move or speak. Tears dripped into the sand silently from under his unruly mop of dark curls. Achilles watched his own hand reach out as though it weren't his. He tucked a gentle finger under the boy's chin and slowly tilted up his face. Paris seemed unable to fight him.

The sight of his beautiful face so twisted with agony, his eyes shining with tears and tear tracks in the dirt of his smooth cheeks affected him far more than he was able to admit. He let his hand drop.

Paris breathed deep through his sobs, trying to steady his voice. He gazed straight into Achilles's eyes. The Greek warrior wanted desperately to look away but couldn't.

"Why?" Paris whispered. "How could you do that to me? You killed my brother…" Paris sat up straight and clutched his hands in his hair. "You killed my brother, you killed him and dragged his body through the sand. He was an honourable man, he was the finest man ever. You knew he killed your cousin by mistake. He wept for that boy, Achilles," his voice was fierce. "He wept for him. And this is your return to him? To me?"

"My prince,"

"No," Paris hissed. "There are no words for what you have done." His voice softened to an unbearably pain-stricken whisper. "After what we did…after what we had."

The silence was so thick with useless, unspoken sorrow that Achilles felt he might drown. There were no lights in his tent; it was the bleeding moonlight that shone off Paris's beautiful skin and flecked off every tear that smudged he across his face. This moment dampened and strangled all the wonder and glory that was their last meeting. Achilles knew that from now on, every time he looked back on what they had had that night, he would be unable to see Paris as he was then and only see him as he was now, bent and broken, a fallen prince, smeared with dirt and tears, defeated and destroyed through loss and betrayal.

And it was all because of him. Achilles longed more than life to touch him again, to draw him into his arms, wipe away the tears and drift off somewhere inside themselves where death, grief and malice did not exist. But he knew that even Zeus would be unable to achieve this for them, even if he felt so inclined.

"I have no words," Achilles whispered, "other than my tears." Paris blinked, straightened. His face grew set, cold. The steel in his eyes which had been so absent before was now scraping across Achilles's skin, as keen as a razor. "Your tears are not enough," Paris got to his feet, wiped his face on his sleeve. Achilles looked up at him, a silent plea in his eyes and wish stronger than any other he'd experienced that he had never been born. "Only your blood will be enough." Achilles blinked, feeling as if an arrow had just plunged through his heart.

"The next time we meet, son of Greece," Paris's voice was now steady and cold. "one of us will die." And he was gone. Achilles knew that nothing would ever fill the blackness that he had left.

FIN

(1)I'm not sure if this is the actual quote, lol, shall have to watch the film again! Oh well, guess I'll survive, lmao.


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